


Don't Encourage the Incorrigible

by umadoshi (Ysabet)



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant
Genre: Adopted Sibling Incest, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humor, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Sexual Humor, questionable choices in dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabet/pseuds/umadoshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>That tone usually meant trouble. My spine went cold with dread, although not cold enough to smother the heat Shaun's touch was conjuring in me. "Shaun, no," I said, hoping to fend off whatever was about to come out of his mouth.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"What?" he asked, innocence personified.</i>
</p><p>Some kinds of dirty talk will get you laid. Other kinds...may not have the desired effect.</p><p>(Or "In which Shaun thinks he's funny and Georgia disagrees.")</p><p>Set a couple of years before <i>Feed</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Encourage the Incorrigible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jinian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinian/gifts).



> Beta work by wildpear.
> 
> For Jinian, to whom I assign all possible blame for this. ^_^

Some four weeks after Shaun and I hired Buffy Meissonier to be the third member of our professional blogging triple threat, she extracted a confession from him that he'd never actually read any of her fiction. Not that it surprised her--Shaun isn't exactly a Fictional's target audience, and neither of us had read widely enough in her field to be good judges of her work's quality. When we hired Buffy, we hadn't tried to hide the fact that we were trusting her ratings over our own lack of expertise in that area.

Her prose and associated ratings weren't even in the top four reasons we'd hired her. Those key reasons were her poetry cycles and _their_ ratings, the fact that she meshed well with us both personally and professionally, her gift for graphics, and her general tech skills. We'd been up front about all of that, too.

I didn't expect any repercussions from his admission of ignorance. But right around then the weather was particularly lousy, which makes going out and pestering zombies annoying and more difficult to film, so Shaun was home and getting underfoot more than usual. He opted to kill time by curling up in my bed with his laptop and, as he put it, "familiarizing himself with our co-worker's oeuvre".

Early on, he announced, "This is porn, George. We're paying this woman to write straight-up porn. Plus a whole lot of other stuff."

"Are you planning to send her a sternly-worded warning?" I asked.

Shaun snorted and played along. "Hell, no. It's not my style, but it's solid writing--plus with her ratings, she can write limericks about Donald Duck banging Minnie Mouse on the school principal's desk for all I care."

"Thank you for that remarkably vivid image that I'm never going to unsee. And please tell me you made that up."

"I made it up."

"Now please tell me you don't fantasize about Disney characters while we're having sex."

There was a disturbing silence from my bed before he relented. "No, but you should've seen the look on your face when it occurred to you."

I lobbed an empty Coke can at him. "I hate you."

Shaun swatted the can aside and hefted his laptop in my approximate direction. "Do you mind? I'm _trying_ to read."

**********

A day or two later, he branched out into reading other Fictionals' work, in the name of seeing what Buffy's peers were coming up with. I lasted half an hour listening to him alternately making approving noises and laughing before I banished him to his own room.

Another half hour later, I turned on my white noise generator. It _almost_ drowned him out.

**********

The real pitfall of Shaun's foray into the world of Fictionals' smut--other than checking out the full spectrum of Buffy's work, he wasn't pretending to be in it for anything but the amusement value and the sex--didn't make itself apparent until several days later. We'd even had sex a few times since he started his literary experimentation, and each time had been fun and hot and well within our usual parameters.

This particular time started off normally enough: some truly excellent making out, with some idle talk as we went. I'd noticed Shaun reading some hard sci-fi from right around the Rising and asked if he was switching genres for a while, and that led to chatting about the stuff he'd been reading lately.

He's long since mastered the art of talking to me while kissing across my body, without seeming like he's pausing either activity for the other. The initial fooling around had happened at my desk, and we were taking our time about getting to the bed, stopping every couple of steps to work on getting each other naked.

Shaun had managed to get my pants off while kissing my throat, and was in the process of divesting me of my bra as he said, "We seriously struck gold with Buffy. She's like a chameleon--even with her hardcore stuff she writes in a few different styles." He grinned and tugged me close, bare skin on skin, as my bra hit the floor; one of his hands moved from my back to my ass, tracing along the band of my underwear, which was now the only article of clothing either of us was wearing. "Even her flowery romance stuff isn't terrible." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "Some of those other writers, though..."

"Flowery romance?" I asked. "You mean the kind that can't use the word 'cunt' without someone having vapors and fainting?"

 _"Georgia."_ Shaun straightened up. The teasing glint in his eyes thoroughly undermined his attempt at looking appalled. "Such language, young lady."

"You've heard worse."

"And I'm shocked every time." As he lowered his lips to mine, he added, "We might have to wash your mouth out," before kissing me deeply, apparently intending to use his tongue instead of soap to restore me to some supposed state of purity.

I laughed against his mouth. We do our share of kissing with serious tongue action, but he knows it often strikes me as ridiculous when we're not on the verge of or actively engaged in the kind of needy sex where we're practically tearing into each other. _"Shocked,"_ he repeated, after lifting his head again.

"Fuck you," I said cheerfully, somehow not sensing the trap that became glaringly obvious in retrospect--he still had that mischievous look on his face.

After twenty-one years of living with him, I usually know better.

Shaun scooped me up and deposited me on my bed, caressing me with an enthusiasm that was the polar opposite of his feigned prudishness. "I mean, making love to you is my favorite thing," he began.

That tone usually meant trouble. My spine went cold with dread, although not cold enough to smother the heat his touch was conjuring in me. "Shaun, no," I said, hoping to fend off whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

"What?" he asked, innocence personified. "I'm just saying I appreciate spending quality time with the flower of your maidenhood."

I sighed. "You do remember I haven't had any 'maidenhood' since we were sixteen, right? Or 'maidenhead', so don't even go there."

His answering smirk was downright lascivious. "As a matter of fact, I _do_ remember deflowering you." I raised an eyebrow at him, and he toned it down to a grin. "Fine. I appreciate quality time with your womanhood. Better?"

He gave my leg an encouraging squeeze. If I'm sufficiently turned on, there are times when he's welcome--and sometimes encouraged--to simply push my thighs apart and have his way with me, but he has enough sense of self-preservation that he won't try it when he's been deliberately provoking me.

"Not much better." I gave him the finger as I spoke, but I spread my legs for him.

He immediately nestled down into the space I'd made for him, rubbing his cheek against my pubic bone like a cat. "But if you've been deflowered, how come you've got such sweet petals down here, George?" He took an exaggeratedly deep breath. "Dewy petals, dripping nectar." He licked right between my legs, tonguing my clit through the cotton. "And a sweet tunnel of love." For just a moment, he paused. "Wasn't that a theme park ride somewhere?"

"If you say so." Right then I was willing to say just about anything to get him to keep touching me and _stop talking_.

No such luck. Shaun was on a roll, and I didn't like my odds of wearing him down. "From the feel of you," he continued, "I'd say that sweet honeypot of yours is in dire need of a throbbing shaft of man-meat."

"Now you're _combining_ horrific terms." But I lifted my hips, making it easy for him to pull my underwear off. "You're going to make me hate the sound of your voice."

"Then I'll woo you back by telling you how badly I want to eat your pussy and fuck you through the mattress." He propped himself up, resting his chin in his hands just above my navel. There was nothing about the maneuver that should have involved lifting _his_ hips so I could see his erection, but he made sure to give me a good long look at what he had on offer.

 _Damn showoff._ No number of god-awful euphemisms could keep me from getting more turned on, seeing him like that. His body was too familiar, and my sense memory was too strong. Five years of frequent, enthusiastic sex with the same guy will do that. It's not a drawback, as such, but it's a vulnerability that he loves to exploit.

I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat, and his grin widened--but his breath caught a little too. He was amused by my response to him, but could no more help being turned on by my desire than I could keep from responding to his.

That made it hard for me to decide how to proceed. The longer I let him keep going, the harder it would be to break him of his new delight in terrible vocab. On the other hand, sooner or later he'd be aroused enough to stop actively hurting his odds of getting laid.

Probably.

When I didn't offer an immediate retort, Shaun gave me an angelic smile and put his fingers to work.

In a just world, his sigh of contentment should have been a sign that he'd temporarily given up being a pain. Of course, the ongoing zombie infestation of the planet is a good indication that our world is no such thing.

He kissed my hip and said, with all apparent sincerity, "I've been thinking about this all day. Touching you in your most secret places; plunging my manhood right into the hot core of your body; making your sweet juices flow..." He had his mouth right at the top of my thigh, and I had the sudden conviction that he was entirely prepared to go down on me with great gusto, all while delivering an increasingly-florid monologue, until I saw stars--or made him see stars by kneeing him in the head.

In other words, he really _had_ been thinking about it all day.

I put my hands over my face. Taking a stab at levity, I began, "Shaun, don't make me c--"

I stopped short. In a truly horrible moment of synchronicity, we had the exact same thought.

Again, in retrospect, that was when the odds of either of us coming away from my bed with a nice, mind-blowing orgasm or two went out the window. I peered between my fingers and saw his eyes shining with an unholy joy. "Don't make you what?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, say it."

I pushed myself halfway up to a sitting position, then slumped back on my elbows. "No."

His entire face was alight. "You know you want to."

I had to admire his willingness to improvise. The rest of that appalling speech was undoubtedly sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the perfect moment to resume, but in the meantime he was rolling with the golden opportunity I'd inadvertently given him.

"I know _you_ want me to," I said.

He kissed along the bottom edge of my ribcage, and it felt good--it felt amazing, because the bastard knows exactly how to get me stirred up in every way--but there were limits. There _had_ to be limits, hard as it was to think about that when he was nibbling and licking just under my breasts.

I put my hand on his forehead and pushed him away, just enough to be a warning. "If I say it for you, you won't like what happens next."

Shaun dipped a finger into me and brought it, glistening with my wetness, to his lips. He slid his fingertip into his mouth, and the genuine pleasure in his eyes made the insistent pulse between my legs get even stronger. He licked the finger clean, and looked at me solemnly. In a complete change of tone, he said, "Hey, George--"

"Don't you dare."

"Did you know girls usually taste like strawberries? Or is that honey?" He gave an exaggerated frown. "I'm confused. Is there something you're not telling me? I mean, you taste fucking awesome, but I dunno. Maybe you need a nice thick load of baby-batter to bring out the flavor?"

"Shaun Phillip Mason, I will kill you. I am literally lying here trying to decide whether it'd be more satisfying to fuck you or strangle you."

He leaned in even closer, inhaled deeply--an involuntary shiver of lust went through him, which was gratifying--and then put his mouth back on me, licking right in. I bit the inside of my cheek to deny him the satisfaction of hearing me moan.

Then he was looking at me again, wide-eyed with too-innocent sincerity. "No, wait, there it is." He smacked his lips. "Strawberries. Who knew?"

I closed my eyes. I took a resigned breath.

I said the words he'd been dying to hear. "Don't make me come down there."

Shaun _lost his shit_. He began laughing too hard to keep his head up, so his forehead was heavy against my belly--and he was _breathing on my clit_ as he laughed, and his breath was warm and tickly in the best possible way, so I _still_ wanted him to keep eating me out, damn him.

No. No way in hell were we setting that precedent.

I worked my legs under him, getting my shins against his shoulders, and gave him a firm shove. It only lifted him off me because we cooperate with each other so instinctively, but the important thing was that it worked. "Out," I said.

He rolled onto his side, making sure not to get his weight back on me when I'd practically kicked him off. "Seriously?" He was still laughing uncontrollably. Knowing he was unable to stop didn't inspire me to feel merciful.

"Seriously. Out." I jerked my chin towards his cock, which was--impressively--still pretty hard. "If you need help with that, I suggest you pray that I'm turned on enough to take care of myself when you're gone. You can put your ear to the door."

"That's just cruel," he protested, without conviction. He knew he'd more than earned his banishment, even if he probably thought it was worth it. He'd be able to amuse himself with the memory for years, while his chances of getting laid the next day would be as good as ever, if he worked to make it up to me.

Which he would. Shaun can be an asshole, but that means he has _lots_ of experience making things up to me.

"There is no man-meat in my bed, throbbing or otherwise," I informed him. "Or love tunnels, or any similar bullshit." I glared and answered his next facetious question before he could ask it. "And there are none of those things in your bed, or any hotel bed we ever touch, or anyplace else where you _ever_ hope to get laid for the rest of your life. Clear?"

He snapped me a crisp salute. "Crystal." His shoulders were still trembling with laughter, but he gave me a sincere look as he got up, so I tilted my head back when he bent down to kiss me. The kiss wasn't really an apology, but it was very much an _I love you_ , and probably an _okay, I won't do that again_ , with a side of _Thank you for putting up with me_.

**********

The following morning, he headed out at sunrise to find himself some very different action. Just before he left, he sneaked back into my room to wake me and tell me he was going.

"Have fun," I said, still groggy.

"I will. Check your email." He kissed my forehead. "And translate it."

Half an hour later, when I was showered and conscious, I opened my inbox. There was an email from Shaun with the familiar header of "Misdirected submission--send to Buffy?" No matter how jaded I get, people's inability to click the correct links in our "contact" sidebar will never cease to amaze me.

Except he'd _told_ me to check my email, and that was the only message from him. Warily, I opened it.

We _do not_ discuss sex in writing. Ever. And he'd disguised this by putting it in plain sight, with a "this gave me a laugh" note at the top of the "forwarded" message, with its authentic-looking headers. Buffy would've known they were faked, if she ever laid eyes on the email, but of course she wasn't going to.

The message body contained over a thousand words of truly dreadful purple prose. The first few sentences--the ones he'd managed to say aloud between kisses--were downright innocuous compared to what followed.

I read the entire thing. I had to admire the artistry of its awfulness; Shaun had clearly put a lot of work into it, and if I "translated" it into language that didn't make me gag, what it said was genuinely steamy and tempting. I never wanted to hear him _say_ any of it, but if he enacted it without commentary, that would be more than fine by me.

I deleted the message. And then I put my head in my hands and laughed until I could hardly breathe.


End file.
